


black and red and words

by Graysworks



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: 2nd person POV, Drabble Collection, M/M, Missing Scene, Reunion Fic, keith pov, now with; confessions!, will add as updated
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-26
Updated: 2018-06-01
Packaged: 2019-04-28 09:20:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14446170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Graysworks/pseuds/Graysworks
Summary: a place to put down some pieces that are too short to post alone/ won't be finished beyond what's there :)1. canonverse reunion fic; shiro pov (take 2)2. missing scene after Across The Universe; keith pov





	1. reunion

You make it to Earth. You don't know this because you're unconscious for most of the flight and most of the crash, but you make it. Pidge will tell you later the odds of safely landing on the planet -even on a part of the planet not covered in water- and you'll look at Keith with a spike of realization, something seizing your heart where it freezes like ice in your chest.  
  
You don't just make it to Earth.  
  
You make it home, but it's another realization only prompted by time, and you don't know this yet.  
  
Someone touches your face. He calls your name and that's it- you must be dreaming, must be past a place where suffering exists because it's _Keith_ and his days have passed; no more throwing controls around a cockpit, or pencils tucked behind ears or whirlwind hover rides with your chin propped on his shoulder. It would be easier to label those as the dreams than believe this one could be a reality.  
  
But then there's an arm around your waist. A hand on your wrist.  
  
Keith, Keith, Keith.  
  
You wake in the span of several minutes, head trying to collapse on itself from whatever wound you've sustained in the past night- or maybe, maybe the past year. It comes as a muted shock to realize you don't recall much even though you _know_ it's been so long, it's had to have been. Sickened relief comes second, guilt third, and something unnamed after that when the feeling of another body curled into yours finally sinks in.  
  
Keith has grown in your absence, but he's small in sleep.  
  
He's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen.  
  
Later, you'll tell him that- unflinching, with a burn behind your eyes and at the top of your throat. You'll be on your knees, trying not to crush his hands between yours and failing, failing.  
  
You don't know that yet, but you know your arm is metal and your memory is shot to hell, and Keith's fingers are white knuckled in your prisoners uniform. You also know that doesn't sit well with your gut, and carefully roll off the couch to look for something else you can wear, passing a hand over his forehead. Keith sighs, like he knows your touch in sleep as well.  
  
He has your clothes.  
  
He has no pictures, no fresh food, no _bed_ but he has your clothes and it makes you unbearably cold, makes you stop what you're doing and take long, ragged breaths. The cadets outside become inaudible for a minute, and you tell yourself the ringing in your ears was from standing up too fast. Maybe it's a lie.  
  
Your body- is a warzone. There's nothing beautiful about twisted skin and permanently mottled flesh so you dress quickly, tell yourself the proof of staying alive is nothing to be disgusted by. With time it could even become a point of pride, but those days are far off and your head is spinning again so you dress quickly, quickly, quiet and mechanical in efficiency. There's a hand on your hip while you shrug on the vest.  
  
You think with a sudden clarity that this is going to be the hardest moment of your life.  
  
But you turn.  
  
You turn, and Keith is wide eyed and you melt, bending your knee to the ground beside where he lays, surrender sweet and slow and easy- because it's _Keith_ and you've been dreaming of seeing him for so long that the action is automatic.  
  
His hair smushes into the pillow, against his cheek and his temples. You're reaching to slide a hand -flesh and bone, nothing but warmth for him, when there's little else you can offer- into his hair, between fabric and jaw on impulse, surprised to find your throat already tied in knots. You think it must be the eyes. Keith's feelings are written in a smear of bright indigo iris, and it hurts to realize you'd almost forgotten the color.  
  
He makes a noise you've never heard before, caught somewhere between a sniffle and a sharp inhale but his mouth is clamped shut, his throat clicking and the closest you can ascribe it to is a choked breath. He makes another, and then another, and touches your chest where it's constricting, all shaking limbs and locked teeth and darting eyes, feeling, feeling, _feeling._  
  
You shush him, not because it'll fix this, but because you know isolation when you see it, and Keith's is written across cracking walls and sealed boxes like a horror novel. Shock is a fluid thing, manifesting in fluid ways, and he's getting pulled under just like you.   
  
Keith fists his hand in your shirt, breathing tamped and low and distressed and you shift to accommodate him, to gather him up in your arms and just _hold_ for a while.  
  
He's not the only one who's gone lonely too long.  
  
You're the body curling around his this time -to hell with the metal, the cold, at least it's under a sleeve- and he digs his fingers into your back almost painfully, chest stuttering, panic evident in his shaking like there's no time for anything else. Like this is still the dream, and he's the one that will wake up soon.

So you tighten your arms around him. You hold him through the terror, pretending you're not feeling exactly the same, and listen to your own barely controlled inhales like that's any better. It takes long minutes to ease him back down, soothe the shuddering and then it's over as quickly as it had begun and he relaxes in your hold.

Keith is small in sleep, and quiet.  
  
His fingers loosen against your back and his shoulder untenses where you've buried your face into it- and he's quiet, and small, and vulnerable again. You both are, but the difference is that you can't fathom drifting off now- when it feels as if the entirety of the past year has been a wild and hellish nightmare. The want is there, warming you, but you need air and Keith needs rest; so you can't stay. There will be time later, you tell yourself, and squeeze your eyes shut.  
  
You kiss his neck through the rumpled fabric of a collar. You kiss his forehead in a private display that goes deeper than affection- reverence, maybe. Promise, because the universe has given you pain, a metal arm, enough scars to keep your nights sleepless for a long time-  
  
But it gave you Keith too, an impossible second chance. The one in several billion of lighting up _his_ sky, landing nearly in _his_ backyard.  
  
Waking with his weight nestled into yours. Like it's always belonged there.  
  
Pulling yourself away becomes a hard task when Keith is in your reach like this, drying tear tracks painted on his face in the early morning glow. His hair is dark, his form is curved just slightly to yours, he sinks into the threadbare blanket and breathes like something gentle.  
  
Something peaceful.  
  
It's what makes you linger, in the end. You realize you can feel his heartbeat through metal, and even the steady _thump thump_ is barely audible. Maybe it's what tips you over, spills hot grief down your face and brings your other hand to press against your eyes; the realization that everything is hanging over your heads and waiting, looming, and Keith is still nearly _silent._  
  
This is what the calm looks like, you think, before the storm.  
  
This is the quiet before a war.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't give me alcohol I just cry about thor ragnarok and edit dumb sheith fic god help

Shiro comes out of the pod changed somehow, quieter.

Keith has both arms around him in an instant, and he feels the steadiness in the older man's legs, but Shiro makes no move to release him. Instead he sinks a bit deeper into the embrace and curls close in a display of affection that startles him- right in front of the team. Right in front of everybody.

"...How's he looking?" Hunk murmurs, less awkward than concerned.

Shiro might lift a thumb in response against Keith's neck- or maybe his fingers are just drifting, searching for nothing just to bring the ground back under his feet. Either way, Keith doesn't answer and only cards a quick hand through Shiro's undercut, aiding the effort to bring him down.

His name escapes parted lips, slow and sighing.

"I'm here," Keith answers, hating the hoarseness of his whisper but refusing to let the others hear when Shiro's like this. He wouldn't want that, Keith thinks, and follows with, "Everyone's okay." It's the next worry coming to Shiro's mind. He wants to ease it immediately.

The man nods into his shoulder, lax and drowsy even after so long asleep. Keith manages one more repetition of the reassurance before he's gently extracting himself and guiding Shiro toward the door, near oblivious to the inquisitive stares of the team. Surely they're wondering by now what happened on that planet to have Shiro this unresponsive.

Keith wishes he could say, but there are too many parts and it's not his story to tell. They'll hear it from Shiro if he decides it's important.

The thought slips from his mind as they cross into the hallway. Shiro is looking at him now, bleary eyed and open, and Keith keeps that gaze, doesn't waver even as he walks in reverse, pulls him to the elevator. Shiro's hands are chilled from the pod.

They don't talk. This isn't like the planet, like the clinging and the wide eyes and the _Are you okay, are you hurt, Keith, Keith, Keith._

Something here is subdued, and Shiro is _cold._

“Did you sleep,” He asks, and the lift glides upward. When Keith nods, he shifts one hand to his face, expression clearing, close mouthed when he presses a kiss to Keith’s head. It’s a rarer display of affection still, and Keith doesn’t know how to respond so he doesn’t- just remains quiet and steady and tries to ignore the way his skin jumps.

Keith is only human but Shiro is his best friend, and if anyone is getting worried over it’s the latter.

"I know how I escaped," Shiro says quietly, feet planted as the haze clears from his voice. It’s good, it’s- better, but Keith is loathe to keep him out of a hot shower or soft bed any longer. Shiro may have slept, but he needs rest. Needs _care._

“We can talk about it later,” He tries, giving him an out.

“No,” Shiro must take it as a rejection and his hands tighten around Keith’s. “Not this.” The insistence has finality in a way that makes it less of a question- but Shiro blinks and keeps his grip almost bruising and Keith reads the urgency in it all.

He barely gets his mouth open to answer before Shiro presses on. “This is important, Keith.”

“Maybe you should- we should wait and get the team-”

“No,” He says again, some note struck in his voice. “Just you, it’s- it’s just you.” The catch is uncharacteristic and Keith notices, nods slowly, unsure of what exactly is going on in Shiro’s head.

The dreams, maybe. That pod can do as much damage as it does repair, and Shiro was asleep for a long time.

The lift shudders to a halt and Shiro starts quietly, “You almost wrecked my bike once. The Garrison hanger,” His gaze solidifies into something searching. “Do you remember?”

Vividly. Vividly, but not how Shiro would assume. A misplaced part, the forgotten kickstand- his crash must’ve been spectacular from the sidelines.

But Keith remembers that night in flashes of black hair, gray eyes; Shiro picking him up and telling him how stupid he was, Shiro hoisting him onto the bench and fretting, Shiro’s hands settled shakily on his waist after being convinced he was alright.

They clutch his now and still shake. The tremble is uncharacteristic again- even more painful to notice, but Keith breathes through his nose and listens, listens.

“I saw those hangar doors in the prison,” Shiro says. “I saw the escape pods, thought of you telling me you were fine and I just swore-” He shuts his eyes tight, takes a sharp breath. Keith doesn’t understand, doesn’t know how this is important but his heart is aching and Shiro is pressing one of Keith’s hands to his cheek and it’s enough to _forget_ for a minute, about anything else.

“I believed you,” Shiro says. “Because I didn’t want you to be hurt.”

That note cracks through again, unidentifiable.

“You never do that to me,” His jaw tightens. “You never let me hurt so long, Keith.”

He doesn’t know where this sudden honesty is coming from, and it’s- new, it’s different, having the concern turned on him like an apology. Maybe he doesn’t understand but cold palms and thudding heartbeats tell him otherwise, prod at Keith to fix this, say something, _say_ something.

“But in that hangar, just for a second,” Shiro’s voice is still ragged and harshly controlled and Keith wants to wind his arms around him, crush him tight to just make it stop, _stop._ “I told myself I wouldn’t believe you again, I couldn’t but I still-”

“I love you,” Keith interrupts brokenly. Shiro can believe whatever he wants, can blame himself and decide love isn’t enough, but that- that’s a constant. A truth, and Keith has to have him know it.

His eyes go soft, pained.

And maybe the confession was sudden, but maybe it isn't a confession at _all_ when Keith has accepted it for so long. It's too simple for that. He loves Shiro, he sees the downward spiral, the way guilt runs like an undercurrent through his voice and no- they’re not doing this now. Not when he’s cold and tired and Keith aches to curl against his chest, warm them both and keep them that way.

“I hurt you,” Shiro says, pain laced. “I left you.”

“But you loved me,” Keith responds, still ragged, still tired because Shiro’s exhaustion is catching. They’ve barely begun a war but they did _begin it,_ and the price of seeing an end might erase the very purpose. Shiro is young and Keith is young and they're fighting something as old as time, as old as war has been around, even, and he just needs to know this _once-_  “Didn’t you?” 

It's as if he'd stabbed Shiro through the heart.

“God,” He says, quiet and rough and nearly feeble. "Keith-" His hands though; his hands are anything but, and Keith yields to the kiss when Shiro tilts his head close.

The abandon is different than that of their crushing hold from earlier. Quieter, slow; and Shiro is more hesitant without cracks in his armor and pain on his breath. Instead it's careful and possessive in a different way, Keith’s name smeared between them like something sweet, like something- intimate.

And it is. It's intimate, and claiming and _Shiro_ , and it runs through Keith in a hot tangle of emotion.

Shiro puts Keith’s hands on his face, slides his own to Keith’s back and in his hair and they meet in the middle like that- Shiro leading, tilting his head and pressing like he’s still trying to get words across but this is the only way they come through, like he can’t manage any other when Keith wraps tight arms around his neck-

Shiro circles his waist and his feet lift from the ground.

“You’re too good to me.” He whispers, and Keith doesn’t bother opening his eyes or telling him he’s putting strain on himself again. He needs this just as much as Shiro- needs the touch and the closeness and to remind himself that they’re both in one piece. That they both made it out of this one, and there’s time to figure out this thing between them.

“Talk later,” He says softly, sliding his fingers through Shiro’s white lock, feeling smooth skin instead when they touch heads. It doesn’t quite distract the warmth blooming across his chest and the way everything inside is shaking and jumping and rattled- but it’s tender, soothing, and it’s enough.

“Later,” Shiro repeats, and they sway gently. They need time in a world that offers too little.

But even a little is enough.


End file.
